The Work of a Lunatic
by BlindDestiny
Summary: Art tends to neglect many things when he's drowning in overtime. Fortunately or unfortunately, he still remembers to check his voicemail messages.


**The Work of a Lunatic**

Art lay splayed atop the covers of his own bed. The moisture from his earlier shower still dampened the ends of his hair, and instead of the comfortable t-shirt and shorts he so desperately wanted, he was clad in his usual suit. Freshly washed, of course.

Tiredness pricked from the top of his head to behind his eyes. How long had it been since he'd gotten a proper night's rest? He couldn't bother to remember anymore. It was just a blur of moving colours. He hadn't been on this case for days, or even weeks; he had been working this case for _months_. The past few weeks had been especially troublesome, though. It felt like he was working around the clock, and only sleeping at his desk—and not always on purpose. Now he could _feel_ the dark lines cutting into the skin beneath his eyes.

All he wanted, more than anything, was a cup of steaming black tea—milk and three sugars—and the confines of his bed sheets. Was that too much to ask?

Apparently so, as he only had a few minutes to spare before he had to head back to his office.

The ceiling looked like it was moving as he stared blankly up at it. Man, he was really tired.

With a low breath, he reached over and grabbed his cellphone from beside his head. He pressed the lock button and the screen came to life, displaying the time. He really needed to get going.

But just looking at his phone forced his mind to wander. Specifically to that bizarre voicemail Nice had left him while he was showering. It felt oddly hollow. He'd been so busy working that he hadn't even realized how long it'd been since they'd last spoken. Nice had left him several messages over the past few months, but he never seemed to find the time to get back to him the way he thought he should. To be perfectly honest, he'd forgotten about the first few messages, as they'd gotten lost within his workload. Later, he truly didn't have enough time. He'd sent him a couple of texts here and there, mostly telling him how busy he was, however…

Art sighed at his phone. It seemed the accidental silence hit his old friend rather hard.

And that last voicemail… It had a kind of edge to it. Art had been tumbling through his words since he'd heard them. "Even friends should speak, right?" he'd said. Like it was on purpose, or something. Art wasn't ignoring him out of malice, or anything. Far from it. Hell, was he even ignoring him? Is an inability to acknowledge the same as ignoring? Even when Art would do anything to just stop and have a leisurely cup of coffee with him?

Then his friend had gone on to wonder if it was something he'd done without realizing. Which wasn't out of the question, Art conceded. Nice could be a bit brash at times, but nothing that could warrant Art shunning him for months on end. Nice had more tact than that, at least.

And finally, probably what cut into Art the most, was Nice telling him not to push himself too hard, and then immediately correcting himself. "Never mind. You don't care about me saying that sort of thing."

Art shut his eyes with a groan. Implying that he was cold and indifferent, huh? That was a blow. It sent a twinge of something through his chest. He could've punched Nice for saying it. Then again, he could punch himself for letting it happen. But it's not exactly fair. Circumstances kept him from it. He couldn't just ignore his job to go regularly prove to Nice that he wasn't angry. Surely Nice knew that too. So why?

Everything about it frustrated him. And still, he couldn't do anything about it because he needed to leave for the office five minutes ago! Just thinking about it had put him behind schedule. He muttered a swear at himself—and Nice, for good measure—and sat up. His phone was still held firmly in his grip. He wanted to throw it at the wall and hide beneath his covers. He needed time to think, but there wasn't any. Only doing. Only going. He slowly got to his feet and his exhaustion weighed him down. He had to go. He was already late. But his legs refused to move. He was spinning his wheels. His gaze was fixed on the phone in his hand.

"Saying I don't care, huh." He mumbled. "That's the dumbest thing you've ever said."

And just like that, he decided what he had to do. The haze of tiredness lifted for a moment. His legs moved faster than they had all week and carried him out the door, heading down to his nearby parked car. He deftly cranked the engine and peeled out onto the street. His phone was already at his ear. "Gasquet, can you cover for me for a little while? Something's come up." The other officer didn't sound very surprised, but questioned it anyway. Art hummed a laugh. "I guess all the overtime is finally getting to me." On the other end, his partner was chuckling. "I'm in your debt, as always." With that, he hung up and made his way down another side street.

In ten minutes he came to a quick stop outside of a familiar café. A café which, by name, didn't exist anywhere.

As he went for the door, he took a few breaths to calm himself. He could at least try to not look so frantic. The exhaustion was creeping up on him again and fogging his mind. By now he was sure he was running on nothing but fumes and adrenaline. His hands were shaking as he slid the café door open and stepped inside.

Someone instantly called his name. It was Murasaki, who was watching him wide-eyed from behind his glasses. Hajime didn't seem to realize that he'd walked in at all. Behind the high counter, Master waved before going back to grinding coffee, and Koneko asked if he wanted something to drink with a spritely grin.

"Ah, no, thank you." He sputtered. This wasn't right. Someone was missing. "Where's…" he trailed off, but Murasaki picked up his train of thought.

"That guy stalked off about an hour ago," he explained. "He was sulking about something."

Art's mouth moved, but the words died on his tongue. After a few seconds he finally managed: "Oh." Murasaki, Master, and Koneko were all giving him worried glances. It seemed the sleep deprivation was latching onto his mind at last. A strange smirk broke across his face. "I see. Well then."

Koneko was frowning. "Art-San, are you alright?"

"Not entirely," he admitted, "but I've been worse." That didn't help Koneko's concerns at all, but it looked like she didn't have anything else to say. Art pinched the bridge of his nose. "I guess I'll go, then. I can't shirk my duties forever." So he turned on his heel and retreated towards the door with that weird smile still plastered on his face.

But before he could leave, Murasaki spoke up again. "Art." He glanced back at him from over his shoulder. "Don't push yourself so hard."

Art couldn't help but chuckle. "That sounds familiar." Murasaki didn't respond, so he went out the door and trudged across the sidewalk, ending up by his car once again. All of it, for nothing. And after he'd come all this way, too. Murasaki and the others would certainly tell Nice that he'd stopped by, but would it be enough? Maybe he should take a picture with his phone of him standing outside of Café Nowhere and send it to him.

The absurdity of that thought slammed into him like a wall. Before he could even register it, he launched full-force into great fits of laughter. He propped himself up on the side of the car as tears pricked at his eyes. His abdomen was already stinging. It was all too funny. Really.

Maybe not funny enough for this hysterical laughter, but the lack of sleep could account for that bit of madness. He hadn't laughed like this in such a long time.

"Art!" A surprised voice reached his ears, cutting his laughter short. He recognized that voice.

He rubbed at his eyes as he righted himself. Nice was studying him from a ways down the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets. They regarded each other for a moment. "Don't say that I don't care," Art smiled. Nice laughed once. "If I get suspended for this, Nice, it'll be on your head."

"Consider it a favor," he shrugged, tilting his head to one side. "Looks like you've already worked yourself to delirium."

"I can't deny that anymore, I suppose."

"Then don't," he spoke matter-of-factly. Art raised a brow. "Be a madman. I'm sure Gasquet's already expecting it."

Art sighed to his feet. "Hey, that's a little harsh." Nice only grinned at him. "Well, delirious or not, I can't stay. There are things I still have to do."

"Of course."

It took a second for Art to react. There was no malice behind Nice's words at all. "So… I'll let you know when I have some spare time."

"Okay."

Again. "Until then?"

"Sure," he nodded

"Alright then," Art blinked. That was surprisingly simple, he thought. Or perhaps the issue itself had been simpler than he'd realized. Well, whatever it was that Nice wanted, he seemed to have gotten it, and that was good enough for now. Art moved to get inside his car. "See you."

"Take care of yourself, Art." This time his voice was serious.

Art peeked over the top of the car door, realization hitting him the face. Why had he come all this way again? Had it really been for Nice, or…? He smiled in spite of himself. He'd played right into his hand. "Of course."

Nice was smirking in that knowing way of his. Art found that he didn't entirely hate it.

xx

**Author's Notes—**These Hamatora oneshots keep piling up in my head and I just—

_Help me._

I'm sure this prompt has been done before. I'm almost certain it has. However, this particular fic was inspired by My Little Pony fan music, of all things; specifically "On Hold" and "I'll Come Running" from YourEnigma's _Tavi and Scratch_ series. I'd say they're both worth a listen, regardless of your pony affiliation (or lack thereof, as the case may be). Knowing the context the songs provide can definitely help one read this fic in a shippy way, even when I don't necessarily ship NiceArt.

… That doesn't stop me from thinking that so much of what the fandom churns out is adorable as sin, though.

Two oneshots in a few days, though. Holy crap. Damn Hamatora for making me productive. People might start expecting things from me.

**Every time Nice comes into a scene he likes to change the tense, that scamp,**

_**-Destiny**_


End file.
